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The night in Wolf Trap settled like a thick, velvet drape, the crisp October air brushing through the trees, stirring the leaves but nothing more. The house crouched at the edge of the wilderness, unassuming and modest, much like the man it sheltered, retreating from the world. From his place in the shadows, Hannibal watched the soft flicker of light through the windows, the warm glow slowly dimming as the evening unfurled.
This was familiar ground, a ritual Hannibal knew intimately. His presence here was a secret, a delicate thread in the fabric of Will’s life that went unnoticed. For all of Will’s intuition, he would never suspect. Each visit was meticulously timed—Hannibal knew when the last lights in Wolf Trap would dim, when Will would be most vulnerable, unwinding the layers of his day like old clothes discarded on the floor. Hannibal approached Will’s sanctuary with the care of an artist, savoring the anticipation, knowing that every moment must be measured, every movement perfectly placed. It was all part of the process.
From the darkness, he watched as Will drained the last of his whiskey, the tension visibly bleeding from his limbs with every sip. Hannibal’s eyes lingered on the sharp angles of Will’s face, softened now by the alcohol and weariness. The tumbler hung loosely from his fingers before being set aside. Hannibal’s gaze shifted to the dogs—those faithful creatures who, like Will, had learned not to fear him. They lay scattered across the floor, loyal sentinels who posed no challenge.
As Hannibal observed, a passive participant in Will’s nightly routine. Will rose unsteadily, his body sagging under the weight of another day, and slumped into bed with the gracelessness of a man too tired to carry his burdens any longer. His shirt fell away, revealing the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, a glow that the dim light turned almost ethereal. Hannibal’s gaze traced the slick curve of Will’s chest, the fever clinging to his body like a mist. He noted it with clinical passivity, though the sweetness of the observation lingered on his tongue like forbidden wine.
Hannibal’s eyes lingered on the slope of Will’s bare shoulders, tracing the elegant curve as it disappeared beneath the sheets. His gaze traveled upward, catching on the unruly curls that spilled across the pillow, dark and tangled, as if the very weight of his day had pressed them deeper into the fabric. The strands clung to the pillow like delicate tendrils, framing his face in soft disarray. Even in sleep, the curls seemed restless, mirroring the turmoil that so frequently plagued his boy.
For nearly an hour, Will tossed and turned, the weight of his thoughts refusing to loosen its grip. But Hannibal, ever patient, found no frustration in the wait. To watch Will in this state—unguarded, struggling with his demons—was a privilege, a view few were afforded. Whether it was stillness or restlessness, it didn’t matter; to observe Will was to observe a masterpiece in all its forms. The hours could stretch endlessly, and Hannibal would still find himself utterly captivated.
Sleep eventually claimed him, unraveling the man layer by layer. It was always the most exquisite transformation—Will’s defenses slipping away, his wariness dissolving into the depths of unconsciousness.
He would wait a while longer, as he always did. Thirty minutes was a small price to pay for the moment when Will’s mind would fully untether from the waking world. There was reverence in the waiting, a sanctity to it. Hannibal stood as still as the night, the anticipation coiling beneath his skin, but he did not rush. These moments were like the careful preparation of a meal, each step vital, each second precious.
Here, in the quiet dark, Will belonged to no one but him. The resistance, the suspicion, the careful walls that Will built during daylight hours all fell away under the cover of sleep, leaving behind the raw, unfiltered truth of Will Graham. A truth that only Hannibal was allowed to witness.
Hannibal understood this Will better than the one who walked through the world burdened by uncertainty. This Will belonged to Hannibal in ways no one else could ever claim.
In return, Hannibal would guide him. He saw the brilliance in Will that others could not, the beautiful potential that thrummed beneath the surface, waiting to be coaxed into bloom. Here, in the stillness of the night, Will was laid bare, a creature both fragile and dangerous. And Hannibal would nurture him. Shape him. Mold him into the man he was meant to be.
He would protect him.
He would cherish him.
Another glance through the window revealed the shift in Will’s breathing—deeper now, more even, sleep having fully taken hold. In this moment, Will was perfect—like a figure from a Caravaggio painting, caught in the chiaroscuro of shadow and light. His body, luminous against the dark, glistened as if sculpted from marble, every curve of muscle and every ripple of tension softened by the silvery wash of night. The sweat clung to him, refracting the moonlight in the way Botticelli’s Venus rises from the sea—a being born of something raw, elemental, untouchable to anyone else.
Hannibal allowed himself to feel what others could never understand. This was not madness. Nor was it cruelty, despite what lesser minds might say. It was love—a love that transcended the crude boundaries of morality. Where others saw lines to be crossed, Hannibal saw only the possibilities of what Will could become. A chance to bring Will closer to the truth, to show him what they were, and what they could be together.
Will was truly asleep now, lost to the dream, but in his surrender, he belonged entirely to Hannibal. Whether Will understood it in the daylight did not matter. Here, in the depth of night, he was Hannibal’s to protect, to guide, to mold into something greater. A faint smile touched Hannibal’s lips—barely there, but full of intent.
Thirty minutes, as always.
And then, he would enter.
The key turned in the lock with a familiar click, the door giving way under Hannibal’s touch as if it had always been meant to yield for him. It moved smoothly, effortlessly, as though anticipating his presence. He stepped inside without a sound, his presence woven seamlessly into the stillness of the house. The night was heavy with a deep quiet that seemed to press against the walls, the air thick with sleep; the house itself seemed to hold its breath as he crossed the threshold, the very structure folding around him, welcoming him in the way it welcomed only one other soul. Even the dogs—Will’s ever-watchful sentinels—lay unmoving, undisturbed. They had long ceased to mark his entrance. Hannibal had become part of the landscape, benign, expected—a constant, like the air itself.
As he glided through the dark, his movements as soft as the padding of his shoes, he felt the weight of the house’s silence around him, thick and unbroken. His footsteps, barely audible, moved toward the armchair by Will’s bed, where the air seemed warmer, drawn close to Will’s body even in his absence from wakefulness.
Hannibal paused at the edge of the bed, leaning down slowly, his face inches from Will's skin, drawing in a deep breath. The scent filled him—stale sweat and pine, the musk of dogs, whiskey still lingering on Will’s lips. Beneath it all, a fevered sweetness simmered, almost hidden but there, like an offering waiting to be uncovered. It teased Hannibal's senses, and for a moment, he could feel the hunger rise, a primal urge to consume Will in every way. His mouth watered as the thought pulsed through him, hot and demanding.
Not yet, he reminded himself, forcing the desire to simmer down, patient.
He turns and takes the scant few steps to sit in the armchair closest to the bed. The chair groaned softly beneath his weight, largely unnoticed, only Winston perking up briefly before dismissing it.
Hannibal settled into the familiar position, his hands resting on the armrests as his gaze fixed on the figure sprawled across the bed, motionless but for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Will’s house was his fortress, solid and strong, yet beneath the surface were cracks—vulnerabilities, hidden, but open to those who knew where to look. Much like Will himself—built to withstand, yet yielding to the one who understood him, the one who knew how to slip through those unguarded moments, those fissures in his defenses.
Just as he entered this sanctuary with ease, so too did he enter Will’s unguarded moments, occupying the spaces in his life that Will had yet to realize were no longer his own.
As though on the verge of speech, Will's lips trembled, the faintest quiver—words caught somewhere between the conscious and the subconscious. Hannibal wondered, not for the first time, what haunted his Will’s dreams tonight. What monster stalked the shadows of his mind, lurking just beyond recognition? Was it another killer, a reflection of the horrors Will could never escape? Or perhaps it was something deeper, more intimate—a figure prowling closer, merging with the fabric of Will's own soul. Someday, Hannibal knew, it would be himself. It would be his name whispered in the darkness, his presence curling around Will like the tendrils of a dream that refused to fade.
Not another predator, not another stranger, but him—only him.
A soft exhalation, and Will’s body shifted. Hannibal leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued. Will had never stirred quite like this before. Will's hand flexed, curling into the fabric of the sheet, knuckles whitening as though his body sought to grasp onto something solid in the nebulous fog of sleep. It was as though the very nature of his dreams had changed—no longer evasive or shadowed by fear, but driven by something… other.
The air thickened, anticipation swelling between them like an unseen current vibrating through the silence. Hannibal could feel it—a new rhythm in Will’s breath. A shift. A catch. His body, once lost in the quiet cadence of sleep, now strained toward something more, a low hum of need rising with each inhale, each exhale. Will’s chest rose and fell with a new urgency, his breathing no longer the steady cadence of sleep, but something charged with need.
Then, from the back of Will's throat, a sound—soft and delicate, a moan barely formed but edged with an unmistakable plea.
Will's body was calling out, searching, needing. His hand slipped beneath the sheet, moving slowly, uncoordinated, but with a clarity of purpose that had never been there before. Hannibal watched, entranced, as Will’s fingers grazed over his stomach, ghosting lower, seeking. Hannibal remained perfectly still, holding back the surge of heat that flared in his abdomen, filling his limbs with a hunger he kept carefully in check.
Alongside the unexpected—but welcome—arousal, surprise flickered through Hannibal. Will had never reached out like this, not in his dreams, not where Hannibal could see him so openly. Hannibal held back, his desire bubbling beneath the surface, but he did not rush. The art of patience was Hannibal’s craft, and this was his moment to savor. Each movement of Will’s hips, each breath, was a brushstroke in their shared masterpiece, even if Will remained unaware of the canvas they were painting together.
The scene before him was magnetic—Will, in the grip of something he couldn’t quite understand, lost to the primal need overtaking him.
Hannibal leaned forward, feeling the warmth radiating from Will’s fevered skin. It licked at him like heat from a furnace, alive and trembling beneath the surface. More sweat beaded along Will's chest and neck, glistening like drops of moonlit water, catching the faint light as they rolled down his skin. The urge to lean closer, to press his tongue against Will’s damp flesh and taste the salt of his fever, surged within Hannibal—immediate, visceral, undeniable. He could almost feel the slick warmth of Will’s skin against his mouth, the sensation of sweat mingling with the tension that hung between them.
Will’s hips arched up in a slow, unconscious roll, searching for more, as he released another soft moan, sharper this time, edged with a deeper pleasure. It sliced through the quiet, unmistakable in its urgency. Hannibal’s fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, his body poised, every fiber of him attuned to the subtle changes rippling through Will. Each movement, each tremor, drew Hannibal further into that shared rhythm, the slow build toward something inevitable.
Beneath the sheet, Will’s hand pressed harder, fingers curling, desperate for the friction Hannibal knew his body craved. He felt a flicker of jealousy toward that hand—Will’s own touch—wishing it were his instead, guiding Will’s pleasure. But tonight, Hannibal could not risk disturbing him, not yet. Another night, perhaps, he would come prepared—bring something more subtle, a sedative perhaps, to ensure Will would not wake too soon. Then, Hannibal could take his time, draw out the moment, indulge in ways Will’s body would never protest.
Will’s back arched slightly, bringing Hannibal out of his musings, the sheet slipping lower, revealing the curve of his hip, the skin there slick with sweat. The temptation to touch thrummed through Hannibal’s veins with more strength, but he held himself back, waiting, watching, savoring. His pulse quickened, but he did not move, his patience a taut string stretched to its limit.
And then, soft and breathless: “Hannibal.”
The sound of his name, whispered from Will’s lips in sleep, nearly broke Hannibal's iron-clad resolve. His teeth clenched with the pressure of it, the hunger that had simmered beneath the surface now fully unfurled. Will, even in sleep, was calling for him, needing him. Hannibal had always known it would come to this.
This was communion, a meeting of souls where no barriers remained. Will’s body had already surrendered; his subconscious had reached out, and Hannibal had been there to receive it.
Hannibal stood, silent as the night itself, his movements careful and measured—every step calculated to keep the fragile stillness intact. He would not risk waking Will, not when everything had aligned so perfectly. But he could get closer. He needed to get closer.
This moment demanded it.
There was something sacred in the air, something that went beyond the physical. The night seemed to bend around them, the space between them shrinking with each passing second. The rustle of Hannibal’s clothes was the only sound as he stepped closer, drawn to the heat of Will’s body.
He leaned in, bending low and greedily sucking in more of Will's scent—now thickened, sharpened by the unmistakable tang of arousal. The usual cocktail of sweat, whiskey, and the earthy musk of dogs lingered, but beneath it, there was something new, something more intoxicating. The faint sweetness of Will’s fever had deepened, turned heady with desire, tinged with salt and a metallic bite that spoke of raw need. It made Hannibal's mouth water, his own hunger rising in response to the subtle change.
Hannibal’s gaze lingered on Will, drinking in the sight of him—laid out, his body half-bare, the sheets tangled and bunched around his navel, exposing the smooth plane of his abdomen and the faint shimmer of sweat that caught in the moonlight. Will’s mouth hung open, lips parted as if poised on the edge of speech, a soft, ragged exhale escaping between them with each breath. Beneath the sheet, his hand still moved rhythmically, pressing into his groin in slow pulses.
Will’s need was not something to be claimed; it was something to be met, something to be answered.
"Someday, my sweet boy," Hannibal breathed, keeping his voice quiet, low, a whisper that barely stirred the air between them.
"Please," Will exhaled, the word slipping from his lips as if in response to Hannibal’s murmur. It fell into the air, soft and vulnerable, a confession too delicate to be spoken aloud, and yet it settled deep within Hannibal, igniting something primal. The hunger coiled and grew, tightening its grip as Will released another soft groan, punctuated by a sharp jerk of his hips, his body writhing in unconscious desperation.
Hannibal had imagined such a sound often, during fantasies that played out in the privacy of his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He had pictured all the ways he could coax that noise—and others—from Will. He imagined moments where Will would yield willingly, trust freely given, his body open and vulnerable. But then there were darker imaginings. In those visions, Will was hypnotized, his body pliant, his mind malleable beneath Hannibal’s control.
Under such an influence, Will would no longer bury the desires that twisted within him. His eyes, half-lidded with a dazed, compliant fog, would glaze over as his defenses crumbled. Hannibal’s hands would roam freely across him, every touch drawing out those breathy moans, slipping from Will’s lips without restraint, without shame. Will, hazy and unguarded, would respond with every fiber of his being to the strokes, the caresses, the press of Hannibal’s fingers—pleasure so deeply ingrained in his body that resistance no longer mattered, no longer existed.
He had pictured Will in the depths of surrender, the weight of his body sagging into Hannibal’s touch, trembling as he begged for more. His voice, thick with need, would rise, pleading with every breath, until it was no longer words but raw desire itself, unfurling between them like something living, untamed. In that moment, Will would whisper his name, soft and broken, the last traces of resistance crumbling like dust.
Hannibal felt the pull of his own body in response to the fantasy, aware of the rush of blood flooding south, his cock beginning to stir, thickening, pressing against his trousers. His eyes slipped closed, the warmth of the room, the closeness of Will’s body, adding fuel to the fire.
"Harder..." Will’s voice broke the silence again, rough and breathy, as if it had clawed its way out of him from some deep place. His hips moved in slow, deliberate rolls beneath the sheets, a rhythm taking shape as his body sought out friction. The sheet slipped lower as his hand, now more insistent, pressed against the hardness beneath. His chest lifted with each ragged breath, muscles taut and gleaming in the dim light, his skin damp with fever and want.
A slow ache curled through Hannibal’s chest, tightening like a vine around his lungs, his breath growing heavier, deeper, his control thinning with each breath Will took. He felt the heat rising inside him, pulling him further into the moment, and without thinking, Hannibal’s hand drifted lower. He pressed against his cock, now hard, aching beneath the fabric of his trousers. He mirrored Will’s rhythm, pushing into the pressure with each pulse, syncing his desire with the unconscious rolls of Will’s hips.
"God... we shouldn’t be doing this..." Will murmured again, his voice barely more than a gasp, yet the movement of his body told a different story, a far truer one. His back arched again, sharper this time, the slick sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light as his muscles rippled with tension, his hips jerking up as if desperate for more. The words were a whisper of guilt, but they only served to excite Hannibal further, his lips curling at the edge with the knowledge that Will's body betrayed him.
Will’s fingers pressed harder, clutching the sheet before slipping beneath it, seeking, teasing the edge of his waistband. His breath hitched, a sound between a whine and a groan, and his hips bucked, chasing the friction his hand gave him—yet it wasn’t enough.
The motion of Hannibal’s hands was instinctive, inevitable.
He unbuckled his belt, the metallic click vanishing into the charged stillness, the slide of his zipper barely perceptible. The air was cool against his skin, but Hannibal hardly registered it. His focus was entirely on Will—on the way his body moved, twisting beneath the sheets, a contradiction of words and want. Hannibal wrapped his hand around his own arousal, the contact sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine, though his gaze remained fixed, unblinking, on Will.
His strokes began slowly, his fingers curling around the base of his cock with a feather-light touch, teasing himself, drawing out the sensation. He dragged his hand upward, torturously slow, thumb grazing the sensitive tip before sliding back down. His rhythm mirrored Will’s soft, unconscious pleas—"Please, harder..."—the broken whispers falling from Will’s lips like incantations. Hannibal matched each breathless moan with an agonizingly careful stroke.
He had always been an artist, and this was no different—a careful synchronization of desires, his body and Will’s moving in tandem, as though locked in a shared rhythm neither could control, meeting somewhere in the space between them.
Hannibal’s breath caught, his teeth pressing into the inside of his lip as a heat coiled low in his belly, spreading through his limbs with every motion. His gaze never faltered, locked on Will, watching every unconscious reaction as it played out in exquisite detail—the subtle arch of his back, the way his fingers curled into the sheet, tightening, grasping. Will’s hips began to shift beneath the sheets, an unconscious grind against the fabric, seeking relief, the strain of his erection pressing harder into the thin barrier of his boxers.
Another moan shattered the stillness, louder now, a sharp, breathless exhale that sent a pulse of heat through Hannibal’s body. His breath hitched, momentarily interrupted by the sound. Will’s hand slid deeper beneath the sheet, pressing against the bulge in his boxers, fingers seeking the pressure his body so desperately craved. "Please..." Will’s voice hitched, almost a sob, as his hips jerked upward, driven purely by instinct, chasing the friction his fingers could barely provide.
The sight of Will—so vulnerable in his desperation, his body moving as if helpless to the drive within—was intoxicating. The frantic shifts of his hips, the silent pleas etched into the movement of every muscle, drew Hannibal in with an intensity that nearly made him forget to breathe. Will’s desire, stripped of all waking restraint, was raw, unfiltered, laid bare in the moonlight. Hannibal, entranced by the sight, could barely contain the possessive hunger surging through him.
It was art, unfolding before him. Hannibal was both creator and audience.
The truth of Will’s need was carved into every movement, every unconscious murmur. The sheet between them had become an intolerable barrier, a veil that had to be removed. Hannibal’s hunger surged, demanding that nothing stand between him and Will’s writhing form. His control faltered, just for a moment—a brief wavering as desire swelled, threatening to overwhelm his carefully maintained resolve.
His hand stilled on his cock, tightening involuntarily, while his other hand reached forward. His fingers brushed the edge of the sheet, hooking beneath it. Each second felt drawn taut like a string about to snap, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Slowly, reverently, he peeled the fabric back, as though revealing the final layer of a sacred masterpiece. The sheet slid away, exposing Will’s body to the cool air, bathed in the soft, silvery glow of the moon.
Will’s dark curls clung damp to his forehead, beads of sweat glistening like dew on his flushed skin. They traced a slow, shimmering path down his neck, catching in the hollow of his throat before disappearing along the sharp line of his collarbone. His chest, heaving with each ragged breath, was slick with sweat, his muscles trembling beneath the sheen of moisture. The glow of the moonlight caressed him, illuminating every strained line, every trembling inch of his body.
Hannibal’s gaze drifted lower, breath catching at the sight of Will’s erection, straining against the soaked cotton of his boxers. The fabric clung to him, damp and unforgiving, revealing the hard line of his arousal, pushing up, desperate for release. Will’s hips rolled again, and a broken "Hannibal, please..." slipped from his lips, the sound fractured, thick with need.
Hannibal resumed stroking himself, his fingers twisting just enough on the upstroke to send a delicious jolt down his spine. His hand moved in perfect synchrony with Will’s slow, unconscious grind. Each motion mirrored the other, their desires effortlessly intertwining as though they had always been moving together. Hannibal’s breath hitched again, his control unraveling as he mirrored Will’s motions, each twist of his wrist igniting heat through his body.
A soft, desperate whine slipped from Will’s lips, the sound low and breathy, as though his body was calling out for more even in the depths of sleep. His hand slid further beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers clumsily seeking the hardness straining beneath the fabric. His hips jerked upward, pushing into his own touch, the barrier of his boxers becoming an obstacle more than a relief. "Oh God... please," Will muttered, his voice thick with longing and a flicker of guilt, the words spilling from his parted lips like a confession he could no longer contain.
Hannibal’s eyes darkened, watching Will’s fingers twitch against the fabric, teasing himself but never quite finding the satisfaction he needed. The sight of Will’s body, fighting against the final barrier, the sweat-soaked boxers concealing his full arousal, was almost too much to bear. Hannibal’s hand paused for a moment, his breath ragged, his body alight with hunger. He wished, willed the boxers to simply vanish, to give way to the skin beneath. He could see it—the way Will would react to the cool air on his fevered skin, the way his cock would spring free, eager for the touch his body craved.
The ache inside Hannibal grew sharper, more insistent, each stroke sending pleasure rippling through him. His hand moved faster, more deliberate now, the restraint he had clung to unraveling as the intensity between them mounted. His eyes never left Will’s body, the way it twisted, searching for more, the way his fingers curled, trying and failing to free himself from the confines of his boxers.
"Gonna come... oh god, Hannibal..." Will choked out, his voice a ragged, vulnerable cry, his name spoken in the throes of desperate pleasure.
Hannibal felt it building inside him, a relentless pressure rising, coiling tighter with every desperate movement of Will’s hips. His own hand moved faster, more frantic, driven by the sight of Will’s chest heaving, his skin flushed, glistening with sweat in the faint moonlight. The air between them was thick, charged with the scent of sweat, sex, and something deeper, something primal. Hannibal’s pulse thundered in his ears, his entire body poised on the precipice, ready to fall.
And then it came—the pressure inside him snapped, his orgasm hitting him like a wave that tore the breath from his lungs, his entire body locking up in one agonizingly sweet moment of release. His hand stilled, his grip tightening as his climax spilled hot and heavy across Will’s chest, marking him, binding them. Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut, as he rode out the wave of pleasure, his breath catching in his throat.
When he opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on Will—his chest, slick with Hannibal’s release, glowing faintly in the pale light. The sight of it, Will marked by him, claimed by him, was almost too much.
His hand fell to his side, sticky with the evidence of what had just transpired, and Hannibal exhaled slowly, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. But this was not an ending. It had never been intended as one. This was only the beginning, a step toward something far greater—toward Will’s inevitable transformation. The room fell silent once more, the air thick with the scent of sweat, release, and the unspoken truths that had passed between them.
This is not the end, Hannibal thought, his chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breath. But a beginning. Will is closer to me now than ever before.
Hannibal tucked himself away, zipping his pants with a soft metallic hiss and rebuckling his belt. Will’s breathing deepened, slowing into a rhythm that signaled his descent into a deeper, dreamless sleep, his body sated, spent. The tension that had once rippled through his muscles softened, his limbs growing limp, relaxed, as his mind slipped further from the edge of consciousness.
Hannibal moved to the bathroom, retrieving a damp washcloth from the sink. The water ran cool over his fingers as he wrung it out, droplets slipping through his knuckles before he returned to Will's side. With delicate care, he wiped the evidence of their moment from Will’s chest. The cloth brushed over the gleam of sweat on Will’s skin, removing the last trace of Hannibal’s release, though he allowed himself a moment to savor the way it clung to Will, a mark only he could leave.
He would leave no trace of this behind, no sign of his presence except for the faint echo of his name still lingering in the air. Will’s chest rose and fell steadily now, his brow smooth. He would not wake knowing what had passed between them, but it would remain with him, buried in his subconscious, a seed planted that would one day take root.
His work here was not finished—there were still many steps left in Will’s transformation—but tonight had brought them closer, had solidified the bond between them in a way no words could ever achieve.
Hannibal moved through the room silently, his eyes flicking over Will one last time before he slipped out the door, his presence erased but the mark he had left indelible, permanent.